


a lo hecho, pecho

by escri



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Being the Change I Wish to See, Frottage, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, tiny bits of spanish (which i do speak)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23389687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escri/pseuds/escri
Summary: “Hang on a sec, Lee, I gotta - I gotta pick Morty up from, urrp - from school. Back in five.”“Morty?” Stan asks, blinking. “Wait, school?”“Oh shit, forgot to tell you, I - I reunited with my family or whatever. I live with them now. Morty’s my grandson,” Rick says, fishing his portal gun out of his coat. Stan gapes at him, stunned, as the weapon projects a swirly green nebula on his kitchen wall and Rick vanishes through it, leaving behind only the dregs of his coffee and the faint smell of sulfur.-Rick and Morty spend a few days in Oregon.
Relationships: Stan Pines/Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 138





	a lo hecho, pecho

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written in like 4 years, so please be gentle. It's also way longer than anything else I've ever written-- I never expected I'd write ~7k of text in my entire life, so I guess that means I'm definitely Stanchez trash, hm? Figures I'd be way fuckin' late to this party. :')
> 
> This is a universe where Ford is elsewhere, mainly because I'm rewatching Gravity Falls right now and don't feel confident enough to write him in yet. Looking forward to hopefully writing Rick/Ford interactions in the future though.
> 
> Rejected tag: my addition to the "hey stan it's been years but you wanna take me back anyway?" "yeah sure why not" collection.
> 
> The title translates, not entirely directly, to "what's done is done."

It's Pioneer Day in Gravity Falls, and this means two things:

First, the Pines family will be staying firmly on their own property, thank you very much; and second, the Mystery Shack is closed for the day, because there's only one thing tourists like more than gimmicky tours: buying personalized miniature anvils from old timey, money grubbing, Northwestern versions of a Civil War reenactment. 

Not that Stan is bitter about this. No, he's having a fine time sitting on his porch, cola in hand as the kids run around near the tree line. They just got back into town a week or so ago, and the novelty hasn't worn off yet.

“Grunkle Stan, we're gonna go see what's going on in the woods,” yells Dipper. 

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” Stan hollers back.

“Yay, no rules!” Mabel cheers as they run off. 

Stan leans back and closes his eyes. 

The relative quiet of the surrounding area is calming. No screaming kids, no idiotic questions from customers, no yelling at deadbeat employees. Just Stan, the wind in the trees, and the _whoosh_ of a flying vehicle coming to rest on his front lawn. 

… 

Wait, what? 

The door of the vehicle opens, and a few beer bottles fall out, followed by a very distinct pair of legs, and--

“Pines!”

No way. 

\--and Rick Sanchez comes striding up to his doorstep, as though he'd never left it in the first place. 

“Hey, L-Lee,” he says, grinning. “Been awhile, am I right?” 

Stan puts down his cola and gets up from his chair, considering the situation in front of him. 

Logically, Stan knows that Rick must've had _some_ reason to run off back in the day, however stupid it might be. He knows, all too well, that old habits are hard to break; and he knows, by the tears pricking at his eyes, and by the weakness in his knees that he thinks is relief, that he's happier to see Rick than he is mad. 

But, well. 

Ford was always the logical one. 

And he _is_ still mad. Stan's never had a reputation for letting people off easy.

So when Rick doubles over from the fist Stan plants in his gut, and wheezes “Understandable,” any hypothetical lookers-on may have seen the hint of a smile on Stan's face. But just a hint. He wipes away the traces as Rick looks up at him, squinting a bit in the summer sun. 

Stan has a brief flashback to Colombia, where they faked a fight like this once to fool a mark. He remembers the glint in Rick's eyes back then, amused yet intense at the prospect of pulling off the job. 

Shit, he's getting sentimental in his old age. A younger Stanley might not have let Rick straighten back up yet, but there he is, leaning against the porch railing and panting lightly. 

“I can explain,” he says. 

“By all means,” Stan replies, stepping through the door and indicating the way to the kitchen, arms out, like the hostess of _Cash Wheel._

⁂

After pouring each of them a coffee, Stan permits Rick about a minute of silent procrastination before his impatience gets the better of him. 

“Rick?”

 _“Dime,”_ says Rick. He snaps his fingers a few times and stares into empty space (as far as Stan can tell). “And pay attention, reader, I-I’m not talking about coins here, I’m speaking a different language, last name Sanchez, work with me - get with the program here, it’s in italics for chrissake.”

Stan stares at him like he’s grown a third arm. “The hell are you goin’ on about? I just wanted to ask a question.”

“Yeah, I could tell by the question mark but, shoot already.”

“What brings you to Gravity Falls? This part of some kinda plan? You in trouble?”

“Oh, I, I see, it was just the obvious question.”

“Just talk before I change my mind and toss you outta here.”

Rick shrugs.

“Bold of you to - to assume I _have_ a plan, Lee. Never did grow out of winging it. You know how it was in the Flesh Curtains days, they told us ‘live like you’re gonna die young,’” Rick says mockingly, doing jazz hands for emphasis, “and that’s exactly what I did! Guess I went wrong somewhere, though, ‘cause I got old anyway. Same shit, different decade, you know how it is.”

He takes a flask out of an inner coat pocket and decants a few fingers of what Stan presumes to be alien whiskey into his mug.

“The party life doesn't seem like something you should really be talking about in the past tense,” Stan says wryly. 

“Yeah, well, me and my liver got a sweet little deal going, where it metabolizes all the drugs I do and secretes bile, and I give it a nice, warm, living environment in which to do that.” He pats the right side of his abdomen affectionately. “Wh-what kind of shitty host would I be if I didn’t give it any work to do? It’s literally just fulfilling its purpose, Stan, it knows not to cross me.” He slurps at his coffee. 

Rick opens his mouth to say something else, but he’s interrupted by a beeping noise. He pushes up his left sleeve, revealing a trio of watches that all look broken. He presses something on one of them and the beep cuts off.

“Hang on a sec, Lee, I gotta - I gotta pick Morty up from, _urrp -_ from school. Back in five.”

“Morty?” Stan asks, blinking. “Wait, _school?_ ”

“Oh shit, forgot to tell you, I - I reunited with my family or whatever. I live with them now. Morty’s my grandson,” Rick says, fishing his portal gun out of his coat. Stan gapes at him, stunned, as the weapon projects a swirly green nebula on his kitchen wall and Rick vanishes through it, leaving behind only the dregs of his coffee and the faint smell of sulfur.

“Well, damn,” breathes Stan, almost forgetting the frustration of being left hanging. “He actually went and did it.”

Five minutes tick by, and Stan realizes that he has no idea what time interval Rick was referencing - five hours? Five days? - but he starts to tidy up a bit around the shack, shaking out blankets and checking the fridge just in case there’ll be guests that night. No need for a grocery run, so he plops down in his chair to catch a bit of daytime television.   
  


⁂

  
  


Mr. Goldenfold leans on his desk, a stack of papers in his hand.

“Alright, students, I think we all know by now that I’m gonna be seeing most of you again in September, due to budget cuts and y’all _still_ _not knowing long division!_ So today, we’ll be doing this crossword puzzle. Maybe next year some of you will graduate to Sudoku. Now take one and pass it back.” 

Every student knows that the last day of school is a joke, and Morty Smith is no exception. After eight hours of word searches, movies, puzzles, and playing semi-educational games, he’s bored out of his mind. He wonders why Rick didn’t choose today to go on an adventure when it’s clearly the best day for it. Half his class is already gone for summer vacation, including Jessica.

He’s scribbling in the margins of the crossword puzzle, waiting for 3 o’clock to come, when Rick barges into his math class to pick him up for a “doctor’s appointment.” Morty jumps up, bringing his paper with him so he can show the doodles of Jessica to their grandkids one day. He hastily stuffs it into his pocket, fearing Rick’s judgment, but Rick seems agitated, even nervous, as they walk through the halls. He finally starts talking when the two reach the front door of the school.

“You know why humans love instant gratification, Morty? Because they let their emotions get the best of them. They can’t control themselves. They see that piece of cake or that new car, and their dopamine receptors start kicking and screaming, Morty. They’re like - like parents handing an iPad to a toddler and blaming it when it doesn’t develop social skills. They take the easy way out instead of handling even the most minimal amount of stress, and repeat it till they die, out of habit. It’s a vicious cycle. People mistake speed for efficiency, and most of them don’t even get to _learn_ from it, Morty.” To punctuate this, Rick takes a long drink from his flask.

Morty thinks of disarming a neutrino bomb in his underwear, with his grandpa passed out on a pile of beer cans in the background. He decides to choose the safe dialogue option on this one. 

“Is - is this why you didn’t take me out of school earlier today, Rick?” Morty asks. “‘Cause I won’t lie to you, it was pretty boring.”

Rick stops walking.

“What? No. What I’m saying is, I fucked up today, Morty. I let the dopamine gremlins do the decision making, and now I gotta pay for it.”

“Aw, jeez, Rick, how are you gonna fix it?”

“ _Slowly,_ Morty, weren’t you listening? We’re going on a little vacation, we’re gonna go see an old friend of mine.”

“Oh, okay… is this friend gonna help you?”

Rick waves a hand vaguely and opens a portal. “In a way. It’s kinda complicated. Anyway, let’s go.”

“Wait, can we go home so I can get clothes and stuff?”

“We’ll go back later, Morty, it’ll be fine. If nothing else, I’m sure they sell yellow shirts where we’re going.”  
  
  


⁂

  
  


To Morty’s surprise, they emerge not on a planet, but on the surface of a meteorite, outside of a pawn shop. 

“Uh, Rick, does your friend own this pawn shop, or…?”

“No, _Morty,_ people run pawn shops because they don’t _have_ any friends. I just need to pick up some shit. If you want a spare shirt, you can get one now. Or you can wait till later, whatever - _urrp -_ cokes your culo.”

“Y-you mean cola?”

“I do not.”

The pawn shop is of a decent size, larger than the ones Morty is accustomed to. Rick spends some time going over the spare parts and tech, of course, but after a while, he starts inspecting the other merchandise with a surprising degree of care. Morty doesn't know what to make of this, so he inspects the lone t-shirt rack in the corner. 

The first one Morty finds is a cool grey shirt with a psychedelic art print on it. Not exactly his style, but he'd consider it for a vacation if it weren't for the fact that there are four armholes. There's a Blips and Chitz tee that looks a bit too big for him. Pass. Last one before he quits looking proclaims, “I went to Jaskor and all I got was this stupid t-shirt… Wait, I went to Jaskor?” It bears an image of a tentacle-waving alien with a pair of underwear on its head. 

He walks back over to Rick, who seems to be doing something disturbingly similar to… gift shopping. In his left hand, he’s holding a taxidermied animal about the size of a loaf of bread. It’s decidedly porcine, but with thick flagella type appendages instead of legs. Several watches hang from one of its tusks. There’s a thick tome in a language Morty doesn’t understand under his right arm. 

“You find anything?” Rick asks at Morty’s approach.

“Nah, shirt selection was kinda garbage.”

“A’ight, let’s roll.”

Rick spends about 15 minutes haggling with the proprietor, who hails from a planet of plant-people and seems like he may literally be rooted to the spot behind the counter. Morty zones out for the larger part of it, wondering what the place they’re going to will be like. Will it be hot there? Is the atmosphere breathable by humans, or will they have to wear masks again like that time on Larkmedian-9? Finally it’s over, and Rick takes the two bags containing his purchases onto one arm, grabbing Morty and shoving him towards the door.

They stand outside for a moment, then Rick opens a portal on the side of the building before locating, uncapping, and taking a long draught from his flask, one-handed. He places it back into his coat pocket and belches.

“C-c’mon, Morty, vacation ain’t gonna take itself,” he says before stepping through. Morty follows, apprehensive but hopeful.  
  
  


⁂

  
  


It’s nighttime in Gravity Falls when they arrive, which is confusing. Rick could’ve sworn their stop only took an hour, hour and a half tops. There’s always been a surplus of bizarre happenings in the town, so he supposes it isn’t too much of a stretch. Still weird, though. He takes a whiff of the country air. Hmm. 

“Smells like the author didn’t want to fill in the time gaps, how lazy can you _get,_ ” he mutters as he walks up to the house again, Morty at his heels. He’d thought about punching in the coords for Stan’s kitchen, since he had them saved from a few stops ago, but ultimately decided against it. Still, Rick doesn’t want to pick up a reputation for politeness, so he picks the lock (ignoring Morty’s protests in the process) and steps inside, setting his pawn shop haul down by the front door for Stan to find in the morning. 

Unsurprisingly, it’s mostly dark inside. The only light sources are some nightlights in the halls and, emanating from another room, what’s obviously the glow of a television. After a moment, Rick hears a snore. Bingo. But how to get rid of…? His eyes drift down to rest on the teen standing next to him. 

“Well, Morty, I don’t hear anyone - any footsteps in this house besides ours, so looks like it’s bedtime for the kiddies around here,” he says, activating his cybernetic eye's night vision to stare down the hall. He grabs Morty’s wrist, shushing him when he lets out a cry of surprise. 

“H-hey, Rick, I’m not even tired!”

“Too bad, s’time for the adults to talk,” Rick replies, spotting an open door that looks like it used to be covered over with wallpaper. He pushes on it, revealing a small, empty room. He guides Morty inside, rummaging around in his coat for a small ovular device. He inputs some data, presses a button on it, then tosses it away from himself. They both watch as it unfolds into a bed just like the one in Morty’s bedroom. Luckily, the room is big enough that it’ll fit along the wall. 

“There ya go,” Rick says, grinning. “Comforts of home, as they say.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Morty. He pouts, but accepts his circumstances, sitting down on the bed. “Some vacation this is.”

“Shut up and quit your bitching, the fun starts tomorrow.”

The door shuts behind him, and Rick snickers. He’s partly laughing at himself for getting into this situation, and… actually, that’s pretty much all of it. He’s made a lot of split-second decisions in his time, some more life-threatening than others, but he can count on one hand those that came with legitimate _feelings._ That’s the problem with getting old, he supposes; it gives you more choices to look back on. 

The TV is playing some old horror flick when Rick walks into the living room. Stan’s snoring loud enough now to make a freight train jealous. Some things never change, Rick muses, mulling over his options as he sips from his flask.  
  
  


⁂

  
  


“…ee…”

Stan mumbles in his sleep and shifts around in his chair.

“Lee…”

“Five more minutes…”

“Lee, for f-fuck’s sake, wake up already! Jeez, do I have to do _everything_ myself?” 

Suddenly, there’s a warm weight on Stanley’s lap and hands on his shoulders, and he’s being shaken awake. The smell of acrid chemicals, cologne and alcohol mix together and wash over him.

“Huh? Whuzzat?” Stan says, finally opening his eyes. He doesn’t know what his sleep-addled brain expected, but it wasn’t this: Rick is staring down at him, an apparently bored expression on his face. Even without his glasses, though, Stan can see a little smile threatening to break through. 

“Well-spoken, buddy. Maybe lay off the zombie movies a little, I think they’re - they’re getting to you. You haven’t been sleeping this whole time, have you?”

“Since you left? You wish I’d been bored enough to sit around twiddling my thumbs for - what, ten hours?” Stan scoffs. “Nah, the twins and I had a night in watchin’ movies.”

“Oh yeah, we never finished that conversation. You got grandkids too?”

“Nope! My only marriage lasted less than a day. They’re Shermie’s grandkids, actually.”

Rick’s eyebrow shoots up.

“No way! That guy got married?”

“That’s what I said in my speech at their wedding,” Stan chuckles. “Took him a while to forgive me for it.”

“Uns _-urrrp-_ rising.”

Rick pauses, apparently lost in thought. A bit of drool runs out of his open mouth and his hands slide down some, onto Stan’s chest. Stan is reminded that his arms are resting on his stomach, like a pregnant lady’s or a corpse’s, and he has no idea what to do with his own hands now that Rick is sitting on him. He hopes the low light and the flickering of the TV hides the fact that his face has begun to flush. It all feels very distantly familiar.

“Hey,” Rick says lowly, drawing Stan very much back into the present. “Y-you wanna get outta here?”

“Uh, out of my living room?” Stan asks, amused. “That’s one of the more interesting propositions I’ve heard lately.”

“Is it working?” Rick is already climbing out of his lap. He stares down at Stan expectantly. “‘Cause I - I’ll be real with you, I’m as down to fuck as I’ve always been, but I also don’t have anywhere else to sleep except my ship, so…”

Stan hesitates. He doesn’t know what Rick wants out of this whole thing, or why he decided to show up today after years of no contact. He doesn’t entirely know why he can’t be angrier about that.

He does know, though, that he spent years of his life regretting seconds’ worth of anger, and he could easily ruin all future prospects with Rick if he so chose. Maybe this grudge isn’t something worth holding onto. 

Rick, meanwhile, takes the silence as a rejection.

“Forget it,” he says, starting to head for the door, holding up his hand as a goodbye. “I’ll, I’ll just pick the lock again in the morning. Gotta bring Morty back home or Beth’ll be–”

“Rick, wait!” Stanley says, jumping up more quickly than he’d have expected of himself past working hours.

Rick waits.

“Let’s go upstairs. Honestly, you got all those smarts and you use ‘em for the worst-case scenario every time.”

Rick fixes him with a withering stare, probably because he knows it’s true. Then he laughs. 

“Knew you were s-still cool,” he says, and follows Stan up the stairs.

  
  


⁂

  
  


As soon as the door shuts, Rick turns to crowd Stan against it, bending down and giving him a demanding kiss. Stan’s head swims, and he moans into Rick’s mouth, reaching out for narrow hips to pull their bodies even closer together. In response, Rick pulls at the hem of his tank top, giving Stan no time to be self-conscious before he’s running his hands all over Stan’s body. 

He’d forgotten how hungry Rick always is. Rick only ever stops being intense when he’s unconscious, and until then he’s thrumming with excess energy, going and going and going some more. Always thinking, always on, unless mind-altering drugs have something to say about the matter. It’s what Stan loved and hated about him, years ago. 

Stan decides things are a little too one-sided at this point, and promptly sets about undoing Rick’s belt, which is currently the biggest threat to his good time. Once that’s out of the way, he shoves a hand down Rick’s pants to palm at the front of his underwear, pleased to note that he’s half hard. Rick groans, grinding against him, and laughs shakily.

“Glad to see you’ve still - still got some fight in you, old man,” he says, kicking off his shoes, then tugging his pants down.

“Plenty,” says Stan. “Glad to see your pants are easier to take off these days than those spray-on jeans you used to wear.”

“Y-you think I don’t still _have_ those jeans? They still make my ass look great, Lee,” Rick grins. “You’re just mad that I made you work harder for it back then.”

Stan doesn’t have a rebuttal for that, so he just takes a step away from the door, pushing Rick back towards the middle of the room. He laughs, stumbling a bit over his discarded shoe before he all but throws himself onto the bed, bouncing on Stan’s mattress.

Someone left the light on in the bathroom across the hall, which is providing most of the light in the room from under the door. Suffice it to say that Stan can’t see incredibly well, but right now he can _feel_ the look that Rick is giving him as he shuffles onto the bed. It makes him shiver in a good way, being wanted like this. 

Their bodies now lying parallel, Rick dips his head and sets the pace of the next kiss frustratingly slow. Arousal simmers in the pit of Stan's stomach, hot pleasure over a low flame. His hand settles on Rick's side, which is distressingly still clothed. He breaks the kiss, and Rick lets out a quiet noise of dissatisfaction. 

“Why the hell are you the one still wearing a shirt?” Stan asks. 

“Dunno,” Rick grunts as he sits up to pull it over his head. “Why - why’re we still wearing anything?” 

“Good question,” says Stan. Both of them hastily shuck their last pieces of clothing. Stan takes advantage of this to start sucking hickeys into Rick's neck, feeling the breath catch in his throat. 

“F-fuck yeah, mark me _up,_ baby,” Rick breathes. “Only souvenirs I need.”

After a minute or so, Rick nudges Stan towards the headboard so he's sitting up a bit, then crawls back onto his lap. Their erections bump together and Rick hisses, sticking his fingers in his mouth to wet them before he takes both in hand at last. 

Rick is only patient enough for a few strokes before he starts to roll his hips too, and Stan thrusts up to meet him immediately. They’re both breathing harder now; Stan has no idea how long it’s been for Rick, but it’s been awhile for him, and he feels pressure building in his groin. Time seems to stretch out, which affords Stan the luxury of savoring the moment. He hopes that this isn't just some passing fancy of Rick's. Lord knows the man is impulsive, but… he'd rather not have his heart broken twice by the same person, if he can help it. 

Rick, as ever, surprises him in the end. 

“F-fuck, Lee, I-I’m gonna--” His head falls back, his hips stuttering as he comes on Stanley's chest. 

“You would, _ah--_ ” Stan cuts off as Rick wraps a hand around his dick, “you would make a mess outta me, wouldn't you.”

“In as many ways as I know how,” says Rick, amusement evident in his voice. “C’mon, babe, m-make it our mess, come for me, Lee,” 

And Stan can only shut his eyes and oblige as his orgasm overtakes him. 

Later, after a cursory cleanup, both men lie in Stan's bed facing one another. Neither one has ever been much for pillow talk, but Stan feels like he'll never know if he doesn't ask now. It's an easier question in the dark, in Rick's arms. 

“Rick?”

“Mm?” 

“Why'd you leave when you did?” 

Rick lets out a deep sigh. “Galactic feds were getting wise to where I was, where I kept going back to. I - I met a Rick who lost you, Lee. Wasn’t fuckin’ pretty.”

There’s a beat of silence while Stan takes this in. “They still after you?” 

“Yeah, ‘cause we're still fighting them. But I've gotten a lot better at dodging them since then, and they haven’t exactly, y’know, gained any IQ points.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me, huh?”  
  
Rick snorts. “Duh, you would’ve gotten all - all emotional and tried to stop me. Plus I didn’t really have what you’d call a stable home life, after that.”

“Neither did I!”

“Look, given another six months, I can guarantee we would’ve ended up dead in a ditch. Or in some shithole of an offworld jail. You think Earth prison is bad, but…” he trails off. “At any rate, it was the only viable solution at the time.”

“Like I said,” replies Stan, “always thinking of the worst-case scenario.”

“Yeah, that’s why I - that’s kind of the reason I’m still alive.”

“Lucky me,” Stan yawns. 

“Don't you forget it.” Rick rolls over so he can be the little spoon, and finally, they sleep. 

  
  


⁂

Rick rifles through the cabinets, searching for the maple syrup. There’s gotta be some _somewhere,_ Stan wouldn’t have made pancakes if he was going to subject him to this disappointment. He turns around. Could be some in the fridg–-

There’s someone sitting at the table, some kind of… tiny human. Rick rubs at his eyes, hoping it’s a hallucination. Maybe it’s one of those acid flashbacks he was promised back in the seventies? “Fun for free,” they’d told him, but when Rick looks again, it’s still there. Damn. He supposes it must be Stan’s nephew, then. Or great-nephew, who cares. He’s heard that the niece is chatty, and this kid hasn’t said a word. Dippy? Slipper? Whatever his name is, he’s just… staring, resting his chin on his hand. Is he sleeping with his eyes open? Rick shifts uncomfortably.

“You, uh, you just gonna keep gawking at me like I’m some kinda zoo animal, or… I gotta be real with you, kid, this is about the least interesting I can get. You’re, you’re weirding me out a little.”

Suddenly, he hears footsteps approaching at a definitively not-Stanley speed. The niece–- Greta? Marble?–- bursts into the kitchen, wearing an oversized purple sleep shirt with the image of a floppy disk on it.

“Good morning!” she crows loudly. Rick, despite his preferred decibel level at this time of day, likes her immediately. This is confirmed when she walks over to her brother and pokes his cheek. “Dipper, are you being weird in front of someone you barely know again?” She looks at Rick, stage-whispering behind her hand, “Sorry, you have to give him like an hour after he wakes up for him to be a person.”

“Mabel!” Dipper whines.

“What! I’m trying to give you an out before you embarrass yourself!” Mabel puts a hand to her forehead dramatically. “Oh, to be appreciated for my sisterly concern…”

Rick yawns.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Just wait till you get old enough to have a caffeine addiction, kid, that - that’ll cut it down to like thirty minutes. Either of you know where the maple syrup is? My pancakes are getting cold.”

“It’s in the door of the fridge!” Mabel says, sitting down with two bowls of cereal. She puts one in front of Dipper, who mutters his thanks. 

Rick sits back down awkwardly with his prize. The table isn’t very big, but they manage to make it work. That is, until Morty and Stan walk in, both carrying chairs and having what looks like a pretty animated conversation. 

“... so I said to him, ‘Quaker? I hardly know ‘er!’, and _that’s_ how I got banned from Pennsylvania. Trust me, it’s way overrated,” says Stan, setting down his chair. Mabel giggles and scoots over to Dipper’s side of the table so they can try to fit. 

Morty laughs, placing his chair next to Rick's while Stan walks over to the stove. “Gee, Mr. Pines, I think I can see why you and Rick are friends.”

Stan places one hand on his heart as the other ladles pancake batter into a frying pan. “Morty, Mr. Pines was my father. Please, call me Stan, lest you provoke less than favorable memories.” 

“Oh, uh, sure thing.” Morty looks a little sheepish. He drums his fingers on the table nervously as he waits for pancakes.

“So is it true you cloned yourself?” Dipper blurts out suddenly.

“There he is!” says Mabel.

“Yeah,” Rick replies. “Buncha times. Turns out it’s a shi - not a good idea unless you actually die. Not original, either, since like, every third iteration of me has some in their lab. One of those experiences that kinda loses its charm after five minutes or so, y’know?”

“I do!” exclaims Dipper, looking at Rick like he’s made of gold. “I cloned myself with Grunkle Stan’s cursed copy machine once! Well, more like ten times, actually.”

Rick raises his brow at Stan over his second stack of pancakes, smirking a little. Stan shrugs with zero remorse.

“Hey, you get some things cheap for a reason.”

“Like your cursed wax figures we had to fight to the death with?” Mabel pipes up.

“Exactly-– I made good money off of those, for the low, low price of free. And not showing my face around certain parts of Montana. Point is, it’s not my fault professional repairs are overpriced.”

  
  


⁂

  
  


Now that the pioneers have packed up their wagons and headed for the hills, the Pines twins offer Rick and Morty a tour of the town. Must run in the family or something, Rick figures. He did promise Morty a vacation-adjacent experience, so they go, and it takes up most of the day. By the tales they tell, Mabel and Dipper have been through some supremely fucked-up shit themselves. Morty, thankfully, seems interested, and tells them some stories about his and Rick’s adventures over lunch at the town diner. 

Stan can’t come because he has to run an actual tourist attraction, but by the time they get back, he’s already bid the last of his customers farewell. He’s sitting at the kitchen table when they walk in, his ledger lying in front of him along with the drawer from the register. 

“How’d it go, Lee? You make bank off some dumb tourists today or what?” asks Rick, peering over Stan’s shoulder at the numbers.

“You betcha,” says Stan. “Good eye, by the way-- they loved the _crap_ outta the new stuff. What's that book supposed to be?”

“A plumbus repair manual,” Rick says matter-of-factly. 

Stan’s brow wrinkles. “What’s a plumbus?”

“Tell you later if you let me mess with your cable.”

“Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Stan, guess what we got!” Mabel says, rustling the shopping bags she’s holding in excitement as she runs into the room. Rick permits the interruption; he’ll open Stan’s eyes to the miracles of interdimensional television later. Maybe.

Stan looks up, raising an eyebrow.

Mabel rushes over to the table, dumping out marshmallows, chocolate, graham crackers, hot dogs, and an assortment of other fun items. “It’s the perfect day for the first campfire of the summer, right?”

“Sure, why not. Soon as I get done doing this, we can start setting it up, yeah?”

“Yeah!” cheers Mabel. “It’s a good thing you said yes, ‘cause I already invited Soos and Wendy.”

Morty is spacing out a little amid all this when Rick grabs his shoulder.

“Here, Morty, take these,” Rick says, shoving a small pair of glasses into his hands. “I got a quick errand to run.”

“What? Don’t you need me to come with you to cancel - to block out your brainwaves, or whatever?”

“Nah, this is one I can do solo. The place I’m going to is like subzero on the danger scale.”

“Okay, if you say so. W-what are these for, Rick?” Morty asks, turning them over. The glasses are rimless, almost transparent. 

“When you put them on, it - it - it changes the POV of the story. The author wants you to take them. It's important, there could be tens of people reading this, Morty, we can't disappoint them now. Anyway, I’ll be back in five.” 

Rick doesn’t wait for a response, turning and disappearing through a portal in the blink of an eye. 

Morty puts the glasses on and they disappear instantly, which is not the weirdest thing that’s happened to him by a long shot, so he lets it slide. He crosses his arms and looks at the twins, a little uncomfortable at being here with a bunch of near-strangers. At least they’re not trying to kill him. 

“Well, I have no clue how long he’s gonna be gone, so what should we do?” 

“Wanna see a bottomless pit?” asks Dipper.

Morty stares at him in confusion. “Um, sure?”

“Trust me, it’s pretty cool, as long as you don’t fall in.”

“I - I dunno, I don’t really have a good track record with that kind of thing, man.”

“It’s okay, we don’t have to get that close,” says Mabel, already stepping out the door. “Spoiler alert, it’s not even actually bottomless-- well, not technically…”

  
  


⁂

  
  


“So they’re kinda like, in love or something, right? That’s why you guys are here?” Wendy says to Morty, poking her thumb in Stan and Rick’s direction.

Morty casts a glance at the two men, who are sharing one of the log benches. Rick has his arm slung companionably around Stan's shoulders, his bottle of tequila briefly forgotten in the dirt. Stan says something Morty can't hear, and they both burst out laughing. Morty watches, fascinated, as the fire flickers and illuminates Rick’s face: there’s clear affection there that he’s only seen once or twice in all their adventures, and even then, not to such a degree (although the tequila may be contributing to that).

“With Rick, it’s always ‘or something,’” Morty says dryly. “But then again… I've never even heard him talk about Mr. Pines - about Stan, before.”

“Yeah, likewise,” Dipper agrees. “But Grunkle Stan was super secretive about his past-- well, except for some of his felonies-- before everything went down last summer, so I don’t think he would’ve mentioned any old acquaintances, romantic or not.”

Morty shrugs. “He just pulled me out of school a-and said some stuff about how he made a bad decision, and ranted about how everyone’s into instant gratification and how - how he had to fix a mistake, but we had to go on this vacation first. I guess Stan is supposed to help him?”

“Man, is this the weird stuff we have to look forward to when _we_ get old?” says Dipper. 

“I don’t wanna keep my love interests a secret,” frowns Mabel.

Wendy chuckles and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Trust me, Mabel, I don’t think that’s gonna be an issue for ya.”

They briefly stop talking, which Rick picks up on before Stan does.

“What the f-f-f--” Stan elbows him. “What are you lookin’ at? Staring’s rude, you know. I’ve - I’ve shot sentient beings for less. Ow! Christ, Pines, you trying to crack a rib?”

“No, I’m _trying_ to get you to reconsider threatening the kids with deadly force. I’m supposed to return ‘em unharmed at the end of the summer.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I’d hurt ‘em! Empty threats never hurt anybody. M-much.”

There’s another silence that Mabel is kind and smart enough to break before it stretches into awkward territory.

“Hey, what do you think will happen if we stick two s’mores together?”

“Uh, _genius?”_ exclaims Soos, jumping up to grab the proper ingredients. “Let’s do it!” 

“Why stop at two?” says Wendy. “We’ve got plenty of skewers, we could definitely make more than that.”

“Oh-ho, it just keeps getting better! Super S’more, here we come!” 

Morty thinks it must be around midnight when things start to wind down. The fire is getting a little too low to fend off the nighttime chill, and he hunches over on the log he’s sitting on. 

“Last call for s’mores, dudes,” calls Soos.

“Oh god, I don’t think I can handle any more of those for a while,” says Wendy with a wince.  
“C’mon, Ricky, time to go in,” Stan says as he gets up, and Morty almost spits out the last of his lemonade. _Ricky? Who_ is _this guy?_

Rick, never one to go easily in any situation, stays resolutely on the log. “What - whaddya mean, Pines, the night’s still young! Can’t remember the last time I went to bed this early,” he protests. “Well, not for sleeping, anyway,” he adds with a leer. “What’s in it for me, huh, Lee?”

“A glass of water, for a start.”

Rick boos him. “Damn, didn’t know that, that _someone_ joined up with the Fun Police while I wasn’t looking.”

“Top of the class, pal,” Stan says with a smile, crossing his arms. “You comin’ or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, cool it, officer.” Rick lurches to his feet, remembering to grab his tequila. With Soos dousing the fire, it gets hard to see the way back to the Shack even with multiple flashlights. Morty can make out the figure of his grandfather ahead even so, bottle in hand, Stan’s arm curled around his waist as a guide. 

  
  


⁂

  
  


Rick has always had a sense for when it’s time to move on to the next adventure, like it or not. When he opens his eyes the next morning, it’s Sunday, and he feels it, sure as breathing: they’re leaving Gravity Falls today. 

Stanley snores softly next to him. The light filtering in through the stained-glass window paints red and purple across his skin. Rick, in a display of tenderness that borders on the embarrassing, brushes a lock of hair from where it falls into Stan's eyes. The man is clearly overdue for a haircut.

He could wake up this way every day for the rest of his life, if he decided to, if Stan let him. But he knows that's not how it works between them. Besides, he does have family to speak of now, and the thought of sending Beth spiraling into any more breakdowns is unappealing. He wriggles out of bed so as not to disturb Stan and slips across the hall to brush his teeth (turns out s’mores and alcohol make for terrible morning breath) and use the bathroom.

The bathroom is much the same as the one in the Smith house, but when Rick looks into the mirror, he’s reminded of a different weekend on a far-off planet, of smirking at his reflection only to find an empty room and a note waiting for him. Of being the one left instead of the one leaving. Of powerlessness, and the smell of ash, and a long, dreamless sleep…

 _Don’t think about it._ He dries his hands, which have long since been clean, and leaves the room.

  
  


After breakfast, Rick reveals the results of his trip the day before: he’d gone to Toizaris to get souped-up water guns for everyone. The ensuing battle spans the town, ruining a few storefronts and several outfits on the part of the townspeople. Morty's aim has improved a lot since they first started adventuring, Rick notices; meanwhile, Dipper and Mabel take to their water weapons (water crossbow and water-balloon grenade launcher respectively) with surprising ease. Better yet, it brings up the best parts of Rick's Stan-related memories-- evading the cops together (not that the GFPD makes it very difficult). It's fun, and satisfyingly chaotic, and everyone ends up sweaty, damp and tired in the Pines' front yard. Eventually, they get the energy to make low-effort ham and cheese sandwiches and take their lunch on the porch. 

Having polished off his sandwich, Rick glances at Stan, who looks almost the same as he had two days earlier: sitting on the couch, soda in hand. 

“That time, huh?” he says, getting to his feet. The years haven't dampened Stan's ability to read him, apparently. Rick nods, running a hand through his hair, and he…

He… 

He’s a little too aware of the three pairs of eyes glued to his back. 

“Oh, for the love of-- is it too much to ask for some, some _privacy?_ ” Rick snarls, whipping around to face the group of teens. They scramble inside, and the screen door slams. “Nosy fuckers,” he mutters, turning back to Stan. Behind him, the door cracks open slightly. Rick rolls his eyes, shifting to block the view of anyone who might be watching. 

Anyway.

“I’ll swing by s-sometime soonish, ‘less I end up in alien jail or somethi--” Rick stops speaking, surprised because Stan is hugging him. His hands twitch for a moment before he returns the embrace with a sigh. 

"Be seein' you,” Stan murmurs against his shoulder. His expression when he looks up is so unbearably fond that it makes Rick feel itchy, like he’ll break out in hives if he looks too long. Rick wants to run from it-- is psychologically driven to run from it-- but he’s fairly certain that Stan will be here when he gets up the nerve to return, ever a steady point in the chaos of his life. And really, that’s all he can ask for. He pulls out of Stan's arms and rummages around in his coat for his flask.  
  
"C'mon, Morty, we're going," he says in the door's direction. There's some shuffling and whispering, a cry of pain, and then Morty stumbles out, rubbing his arm. 

"Later, guys! It was nice to meet you," says Dipper, waving from the doorstep.

"Yeah, thanks for the water guns!" Mabel chimes in. "You guys should definitely come back before the end of the summer."

"Uh-huh, I guess there's a nonzero probability of that happening. Thanks for the pancakes, Stan," Rick says, dragging Morty across the lawn to the ship. 

"Let go of me, Rick, I know how - I learned to walk a long time ago!"

"I'll believe it when you stop falling all over yourself like - _urrp_ \- like a baby deer, Morty. Looked like their front step was gonna lay you out for a second there."

The ship rises into the air, and Rick raises a hand in farewell before he steers them up and away into the clouds. Morty sulks quietly, much to his relief, and he's alone with his thoughts for most of the journey home. When they land, he makes for the kitchen. If memory serves, there's a handle of vodka in the freezer calling his name.

“Hey, w-what about that problem you were supposed to deal with?” Morty asks as he passes from the garage into the house proper.

Rick turns around, confusion written across his face. “What are - the fuck are you even talking about?”

“You know, the fuckup you had to pay for?”

“Oh, that,” Rick says, flopping down on the living room couch with his bottle and searching for something between the cushions. “Don’t worry about it, it’s taken care of. As a wise man once said, Morty: ‘If you don’t get punished, you don’t have to learn.’ Now help me find the remote, there’s a new episode of _Ball Fondlers_ on in five minutes. I don’t wanna have to fuck w-with, with time shit again just to catch my show, you hear me?”

“Yeah, Rick,” Morty sighs, kneeling on the floor to check under the furniture. Above him, Rick pulls up his sleeve to set an alarm on his watch for a date approximately one month into the future, adjusting for major holidays and predicted tourism patterns--  
  


 **_New Event > Recurring > Monthly: _ ** _Visit Lee._

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

>  _In another universe:_ “Yeah,” Rick replies. “Buncha times. Turns out it’s a shi-- not a good idea, unless you actually die. Not original, either, since like, every third iteration of me has some in their lab. But hey, at least now I know how it feels to be a shrimp being chased by fascists. Who are also shrimp.”
> 
> "How does it f--"  
> "Bad. Just extremely, unequivocally bad."
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments/kudos are much appreciated if you enjoyed it!


End file.
